


I'm Not the Dragon

by jessgeorge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship/Love, Love, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2726639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessgeorge/pseuds/jessgeorge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of solving his most difficult case yet after Moriarty’s return, Sherlock begins to realise that John is important to him in more ways than one. He is important to Sherlock in every way, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not the Dragon

“Fleet Street, Mabley Street, Gap Road,” Mycroft lists, flicking through the sheets of paper littering the table. “This one even says he’s been spotted as far north as Lancaster.”

  
Sherlock snorted and paused in his act of placing pins on the places Mycroft has been listing. “I’m sure he would stay in London, not go up north,” he said. “That one has to be fearful speculation.”

  
Mycroft nodded. “I’m inclined to agree with you. Everything we know points to him being in London.”

  
“I don’t think it’s possible to narrow it down further than that at the moment,” Sherlock sighed, stepping back to examine the maps he had pinned up on the wall. The enlarged map of London was covered with pins marking places Moriarty had allegedly been sighted in. Red thread connected the pins, marking Sherlock’s attempt to track his movements. The thread criss-crossed in a tangle of colour, resembling an intricate and detailed spiders web. It was impossible to see any areas Moriarty would be most likely to be residing in.

  
Since Moriarty had hijacked into the TV screens and transmitting devices of London, he had remained ominously invisible. His sudden appearance had created a climate of fear, causing people to continually claim that they had seen Moriarty in the streets or outside their windows. However, the initial panic had recently calmed slightly, making it a little easier for Sherlock and Mycroft to distinguish between what sightings were real and which were false.

  
Mycroft had cameras and agents out in the streets of London, allowing a near-constant view of who was there at all moments. They had glimpsed Moriarty through these cameras only once and in the few moments it had taken for one of Mycroft’s men to be there, Moriarty had disappeared.

  
“He’s like a spider,” Sherlock continued, his eyes flicking continually over the map. “He’s biding his time, waiting, stalking his prey, leading them into his web. It’s a game to him. He’ll be after me, of course. He’s waiting for me to show up and test him.”

  
“How can you know he’s after you in particular, Sherlock?” Mycroft said, rising to stand beside Sherlock with his hands in his suit pockets.

  
“Because he will be,” Sherlock snapped. “He wasn’t able to beat me last time. I survived with my reputation intact and I destroyed his network.”

 

“You thought you did,” Mycroft interrupted coolly.

  
“As did you,” Sherlock said irritably. “Neither of us knew that Moriarty was still alive. How could we know? There were no signs.”

 

“The question which concerns me most,” Mycroft said. “Is what Moriarty has been doing during this time. He’s been silent for so long.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “He’ll have been doing something, of course. Something big – somebody like him will want attention, he won’t have done anything by halves. He wants attention, he wants to be pushed. That’s why I suspect some of these sightings are real – he wants me to know he’s here but he also wants to frustrate me that I can’t see him. He’s clever, that’s why he’s avoiding your cameras. He’ll be waiting for me to act, to understand something. He’ll want me to guess what he’s been working on before he does anything.”

  
“What can he have been working on?”

  
Sherlock ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know.” He moved over to the table to take a sip of his tea, which had now gone cold from being abandoned so long. The table was full of sheets of paper, some containing alleged sightings of Moriarty and some with Sherlock’s own notes and thoughts on Moriarty’s actions.

  
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said abruptly in a tone of forced casualness, as a thought occurs to him. “What projects has the government been working on lately?”

 

Mycroft’s expression remained as smooth and calm as ever. “I can assure you that there is nothing that Jim Moriarty would ever have access to.”

  
“How can you be sure?” Sherlock said persistently. “You can’t underestimate him.”

  
“I know that, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, with an indulgent smile on his face as if talking to a young child. “But do believe me, there are many layers of top security measures surrounding government work that even Moriarty would not be able to break through. I am not underestimating him in the slightest,” he added firmly as Sherlock opened his mouth to retort. The definite expression on his face made Sherlock close his mouth, albeit a little reluctantly.

  
Sherlock suppressed a sigh and sat down at the table, preparing to attempt to sort the papers into a logical order. However, he was interrupted by the buzzing of his mobile.  
“That’s mine,” he said, reaching behind him for his suit jacket lying on the back of the chair. He unlocked the screen to see a message from John.

  
_Mary had the baby. Healthy, lovely girl now 8 hr old._

  
“Ah,” Mycroft sighed, sitting down. “Is that news from John?”

  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, staring at the message. “Mary’s had the baby.”

  
“Oh,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. “Do send them my best regards.”

  
Sherlock did not reply. Instead, he focused on replying to John’s text. After some deliberation, he opted for sending John a short message simply stating ‘ _Congratulations. SH_ ’

  
John replied quickly. _Thanks. Are you free to come and see her? Promise she’s worth the journey_

 

Sherlock stood up immediately and pulled on his jacket. “I’m going to see John,” he informed Mycroft, grabbing his coat. “You can see yourself out.”

  
“Of course,” Mycroft said, a small smirk curling across his face. “Do enjoy yourself.”

  
The smooth, controlled nature of his voice irritated Sherlock, causing him to turn his back sharply on Mycroft and stalk out. He hailed a cab and sat back in the seat, trying to quell the prickle of nerves that had arisen in his stomach.

  
He had rarely seen John since they had been at the airport and Sherlock had been called back to help stop Moriarty. John had beamed at him as Sherlock had walked off the plane and Sherlock had been unable to suppress a grin of his own. The relief he had felt at that moment, knowing that he would be able to return to London and, although he did not want to admit it to himself, most importantly, see John again was indescribable. However, he had not had long to savour seeing John for long; Mycroft had swept him into his car almost immediately and they had driven away to Mycroft’s office before Sherlock could so much as say hello to John. Since then, Sherlock had been busy trying to track down Moriarty and John had been kept occupied by dealing with living with Mary again, and getting his head round the imminent birth of their child. Nevertheless, John was a fairly regular visitor at Baker Street in the evenings, when Sherlock had been forced to finish work for the day with his head aching from his complicated notes. John would attempt to assist Sherlock with tracking Moriarty, reading through his notes and examining the map closely, but had been unable to make any inroads. John would often stay late during these evenings, displaying a clear unwillingness to return home.

  
Sherlock knew that John struggled to act normally with Mary. John was still unable to forgive Mary for shooting Sherlock. There had been times when Sherlock felt the ache of the bullet wound in his side and if John was with him on these occasions, Sherlock would see John’s eyes on him, concern and anger visibly written on his face.

  
John was waiting for him when Sherlock arrived. His hair was messy from running his hands through it, his clothes were creased and crumpled, he had dark circles under his eyes and yet he was smiling.

  
“Mary’s doing well,” he told Sherlock. “Come and see the baby.”

  
Inside the hospital room, Mary was sitting up in bed, her cheeks pink and a smile on her face. At the foot of her bed there was a cot, into which John was reaching. He emerged with a small white bundle in his arms, which he carried carefully over to Sherlock.

  
“We thought we’d call her Alice,” he said proudly and Sherlock looked at Alice Watson for the first time. She was small and pink and slightly wrinkled, with a dusting of light blond hair and chubby fingers that grasped at nothing. Sherlock slid his gaze upwards to look at John, who was smiling down at Alice. For the first time in months, John seemed to be completely relaxed and happy.

  
“What do you think?” he asked Sherlock.

  
“She’s extraordinary,” Sherlock said and John beamed up at him in response. Their eyes met and Sherlock found that he did not want to look away. John’s face, relaxed and contended, was oddly compelling.

  
“That’s just what I think,” John said.

  
Alice’s small face screwed up as she began to cry, letting out small wails. Sherlock looked down, faintly alarmed that he had done something wrong or hurt her in some way.

  
“It’s ok,” John grinned, noticing the worried expression on Sherlock’s face. “She’s a baby, she’ll spend most of her time doing this.”

  
“Give her to me,” Mary instructed, holding out her arms.

  
John took her from Sherlock and deposited a quick kiss onto Alice’s head before gently passing her to Mary. He sat down on the edge of the bed with his arm around the headboard. Mary leaned back into it and smiled up at John. Sherlock felt awkward, as if he was intruding on a private moment between the two. He hovered as he watched Mary rock Alice in her arms and coo at her softly until she quietened.

  
He drew his coat around himself, preparing to leave, but John looked up at him and nodded to the empty chair by the bed. “Sit down,” he instructed. Sherlock hesitated, for he would have much preferred to leave, but he did not want to disappoint John. He sat down, flicking his coat out behind him to avoid creasing it. John smiled at him.  
“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked Mary solicitously.

  
She smiled tenderly down at Alice with a soft expression on her face that only came with the glow of new motherhood. “I’m great,” she said.

 

“Long labour though,” John commented, running a hand through his hair so it stuck up messily, soft and crumpled like his clothing.

  
“Oh God, yeah,” Mary groaned, throwing her head back against the pillows. “Absolutely nightmarish.” As if in protest, Alice began to whimper again, her fists clutching against Mary’s clothes.

  
“She’s probably hungry,” John said, looking down at her.

  
Sherlock rose to his feet immediately and an amused smile covered both Mary and John’s faces. “I’ll come out with you,” John said, getting to his feet and following Sherlock out of the room.

  
“I’m very happy for you,” Sherlock said as John shut the door behind them.

  
“Thanks,” John said, turning and leaning against the door, looking at Sherlock. “Yeah. I’m just happy she’s here.”

  
They smiled at each other and then lapse into silence. Sherlock wanted to leave again, thinking longingly of the silence in Baker Street where he would be free to think over Alice’s arrival in his own time. John, however, did not seem to want him to leave. He looked at Sherlock closely, making Sherlock feel slightly uncomfortable under his gaze.

  
“What?” he asked, almost accusingly.

 

“You look tired,” John said. “You are getting enough sleep, aren’t you?”

  
“Yes,” Sherlock said automatically. He chose not to comment on the dark circles under John’s own eyes and the lines on his face.

  
“Have you got any further with Moriarty?” John asked and Sherlock shook his head.

  
“Nothing.”

“Anything I can do?”

  
“No,” Sherlock said. He wanted to ask John about Mary to see his reaction, but didn't want to dampen John's spirits. From the way John had avoided touching Mary, he was able to read John’s continuing inability to trust Mary, or forgive her from shooting Sherlock.

  
“Ok,” John said, disappointment flickering momentarily across his face. “Well, let me know if I can. Or if you want to talk anything through.” He continued to look at Sherlock, who began to feel slightly uncomfortable under his continued gaze.

  
“I really should go,” Sherlock said.

  
“Oh, of course,” John said quickly, looking down at his feet. “You must be busy.”

  
Sherlock thought of the stacks of papers back at the flat and the hours of fruitless searching for Moriarty. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Very busy.”

  
John nodded. “Well, thanks for coming to see Alice,” he said. Sherlock was amused to see how an involuntary smile spread over his face at the name of his daughter.

  
“It was my pleasure,” Sherlock said sincerely and John grinned.

  
“Come over to my flat soon,” he said. “Ok? Or I’ll come to Baker Street.”

  
“Sounds good,” Sherlock said.

  
“Yeah. Well, I’ll see you soon,” John said.

  
“Yes,” Sherlock smiled. He was surprised at the effort it took him to turn around and leave. Unable to stop himself, he turned around at the door and saw John watching him, his arms folded and a soft expression on his face. His face felt suddenly hot and he hastily closed the door behind him, hoping John had not noticed. John didn’t usually miss the obvious, however.

  
A long time ago, Sherlock had once faintly pictured a life spent in London with John, solving the cases Scotland Yard were baffled by. This image of the future was appealing and Sherlock had found himself looking forward to it, a feeling very different from his previous views on the future. At times, he had been unable to envisage himself making it past forty.

  
Now, however, his view of the future was changing. Since he had returned and met Mary, he had known that he and John would be unable to settle down into their old, comfortable routine of cases and bad takeaways. John and Mary would marry and settle down together and have the usual 2.4 children and a garden. John would work at the doctor’s surgery and take the kids to school and their extracurricular activities and it would all be horribly dull. Sherlock would take on cases but they would no longer have the same enjoyment. He had been surprised to find how much he had noticed John’s absence when tracking down Moriarty’s network.

  
Since Mary’s betrayal, however, Sherlock no longer knew how John would act. There had always been a strange and intriguing unpredictability to John’s actions, such as his willingness to stay with Sherlock and his ability to provide Sherlock with new ideas and inspirations. Sherlock was therefore unable to predict John’s next move. He was well aware that John had struggled to forgive Mary, but the strong sense of duty he held meant that he was determined to be faithful to his daughter. Now that she was born, John’s next course of action was unclear. Sherlock could not predict whether the birth of their daughter would allow John and Mary to reconcile, or whether her betrayal would have left wounds so deep they could not be forgiven.

  
Sherlock hailed a taxi outside the hospital and stepped into it. “Baker Street, please,” he said to the cabbie, who acknowledged this location with a grunt and smoothly pulled away.

  
Sherlock watched the streets of London flash by and thought of the warm and solid weight of Alice in his arms. He’d never cared much for babies and it was strange to think of John having one. Alice herself had looked much like any other baby to him; small and pink with wide blue eyes. But by seeing the way John had looked at her, Sherlock’s own initial view of Alice had changed. He had evidently been influenced by the clear adoration in John’s expression, allowing him to notice the beauty in Alice’s small, grasping fingers and the soft brush of light hair on her head.

  
“Busy day, mate?” the cabbie asked, his tongue pushing his gum to the other side of his mouth. Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt in reply, not wanting to make conversation.

  
He wished he had spent longer at the hospital now that he had left, but when he had been there all he had wanted to do was leave. He felt like that most of the time around John nowadays. He missed him at Baker Street yet disliked visiting John in the flat he shared with Mary. It was the photos of the two of them dotted around the place that irritated him. There were numerous framed photos on the walls and side tables to display their relationship. Mary’s phone background was of a photo she had taken of John kissing her cheek. It annoyed Sherlock that she had the nerve to keep that as her background when John was clearly upset by her lies to him.

  
It also annoyed Sherlock that, while there were many photos of John and Mary together, there were very few of him and John together. The few photos they had were mainly of them standing beside each other after having solved another case successfully. These photos were clearly impersonal and formal, nothing like the informality of the photos John and Mary had together.

  
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out automatically, glancing at the screen. It was a phone call from an unknown number. Repressing a sigh of impatience, he rejected the call. However, as he was moving to slide his phone back in his pocket, he heard the buzz of a voice emanating from it. The phone had somehow refused to reject the call.

  
Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear, fully expecting to immediately reject the call, expecting it to be a wrong number. However, the voice sent an unwilling shiver of cold down his back.

  
“Hello, Sherlock,” Moriarty drawled.

  
Sherlock’s body stiffened, the fight or flight response making him immediately ready to act. “How did you find this number?” he hissed.

  
“Oh, I know everything, my dear,” Moriarty smiled. “I just thought I’d give you a little hint, perhaps. A little something to keep you on your toes. I know you’re looking for me. But you won’t be able to find me, I’m afraid. Not unless I want you to. What’s that you always say? Oh yes, the game is on, Sherlock Holmes. The game is on.”

  
“What game?” Sherlock said, frowning. He knew Moriarty loved the chase almost as much as he did, but he was unable to understand the point to this phone call. Moriarty did not need to frighten him.

 

“The game,” Moriarty emphasised. “I’m working on something, Sherlock. Something big. Something you cannot imagine.”

  
“What is this?” Sherlock asked, his voice taut with anger and frustration.

  
“Your brother knows,” Moriarty sang and Sherlock felt a horrible burst of heat erupt in his stomach. “He’s clever enough to know what to do. But I don’t think you are. I don’t think you can hide from it.”

  
“I am clever enough,” Sherlock said shortly. “I am.”

  
“Work out what I’m planning on your own, then,” Moriarty taunted. “See if you’re clever enough for that.”

  
Sherlock viciously ended the phone call and leant back in his seat, his mind buzzing and the prickles of fire vibrating through his body. He was filled with anger that Mycroft might know what Moriarty was planning and yet he was determined not to ask him for help. If Mycroft was involved with Moriarty then it would be dangerous to let on that Sherlock might know about it. But, most of all, Sherlock was full of a fierce determination to prove Moriarty and Mycroft and everyone else who doubted him wrong. He was clever enough to solve this case on his own without any help from anyone and he was determined to do so.

 

 

 

 


End file.
